After closing the hatch behind them, Anthony led Tornovsky into the main hall of the Teepee, which had been constructed for comfort as much as it had been for privacy. Light was provided by a series of mirrored chutes set into the ceiling, which reflected and refracted the daylight into the structure below. There were also electric lights, powered by a generator, for evening hours. The main hall resembled an expansive sitting room. Large couches formed a semi-square around a massive fire pit. A small fire burned in the pit, obviously lit by Mephito. An extractor fan was set into the ceiling over the pit, and it silently drew smoke from the pit and vented it through a number of hidden flues.
Anthony left Tornovsky sitting before the fire and went into the kitchen and began to brew a pot of chicory. The kitchen was fully stocked and kitted out, to Dawkins’ specifications. Anthony had often weighed the consequences of hiring a full time staff for the Teepee, as he had done for the Pueblo, but in the end had decided against it, at least for the time being. While the chicory was brewing, he watched Tornovsky fidget on the couch. The old man was staring into the fire as if it held some secret only he could discern.
How did Tornovsky fit into this situation? He’d recognized the man’s name as soon as he’d heard it. Tornovsky, Kuzmin, and Sirko had all been a part of whatever mysterious event Magda Sirko had sworn was the catalyst for her husband’s kidnapping and death. As he considered that last thing, Anthony frowned. He still hadn’t called Dolores with the news. He’d thought it more prudent to get Tornovsky under cover as soon as possible. He could only imagine how Magda would react when she learned of her husband’s end.
Anthony, hardened as he was, shivered slightly. In his opinion, there was no such thing as a good death. His examination of the remains, cursory though it had been, had implied Sirko had died hard, and in agony. He resolved to spare Sirko’s wife the grisly details, if possible.
When the chicory had brewed, Anthony thrust a cup into Tornovsky’s hands and sat down across from him on a stool. “Tell me about Ungern-Sternberg… tell me about the Mad Baron.”
Tornovsky looked at him, wide eyed. “You know?”
“Some, not all,” Anthony said, sipping his chicory. “I know about Sirko, and Kuzmin. I know that something happened, out there in Mongolia. And I know someone wants you dead because of it.”
Tornovsky hunched forward, his scarred fingers wrapped tight about the mug of chicory. He looked old in the artificial light of the Teepee, his weathered features slumping into an assortment of fleshy crags and ravines. “I was a loyal man. I was loyal to Ungern-Sternberg and the Savage Division. I followed the Bloody Baron into Outer Mongolia when the Tsar fell and the Bolsheviks took power, and we set the Bogd Khan onto the throne.” A smile crept slowly across his face. “We pushed the Reds back, beat them back into Russia. But, we could do no more.”
His smile faded. “We needed money, you understand. We were going to take back the motherland, to pry it from the grip of the Bolsheviks with bullets and bayonets. The Baron was like a dervish, enflamed by passion, driven past the point of madness and into that strange land where mystics commune with demons and divine fortunes. We spent months rooting out the enemies of our new state, and purging our ranks of traitors and subversives.”
“Or the innocents you blamed for subversive activities,” Anthony cut in.
Tornovsky didn’t look at him. “We were at war,” he said simply. “We were at war and we needed money. Sirko sent word that he was escorting a member of the Tsar’s court—a boy, playing at soldiers—to Mongolia to get him out of the Bolsheviks’ hands and into the hands of men loyal to the Romanovs and the Tsarist state. Kuzmin was with them, and sent word that the boy had money. Gold, enough to fund the sort of army Ungern-Sternberg could only dream of.”
“And you decided to take it,” Anthony said. He sat back on his stool.
Tornovsky nodded. “Yes, why shouldn’t we have? The boy was nothing. A puppet for Semenov or one of the others, who would have trotted him out like a rallying flag, or traded him to the Bolsheviks for something. Death was a mercy, and dying for the cause, an honor.”
“Except that he’s not dead,” Anthony said. It was a guess, but when Tornovsky flinched, he knew he’d hit the mark. The whole affair had a grisly patina that screamed ‘personal’. But there was something else to it. “He survived, that boy. And now he’s hunting you.”
“So it would seem,” Tornovsky said, He sipped from his mug and peered at Anthony. “How did you guess?”
“His name—Koschei,” Anthony said. “A deathless warrior from Russian folklore. The man who put his soul into a needle, the needle into an egg and the egg into a duck…”
“And the duck into a hare, and the hare into an iron chest,” Tornovsky said. He smiled thinly. “It is his little joke, I think. To show that he cannot die.” His smile faded. “His men almost caught me in Shanghai. Then again in Paris. I went to London, looking for Kuzmin, but got there too late. Then I came here, hoping to reach Sirko…”
“Why?”
Tornovsky looked at him. “Why do you think? Strength in numbers,” he said. Anthony examined his face, studying the map of wrinkles and scars that made it up. Tornovsky was lying, he was certain of it. “Even the devil must fear two honest Cossacks.”
“I’d hardly call you honest,” Anthony said. “Kuzmin and Sirko fled with their shares. What did you and Ungern-Sternberg do with the rest?”
“We buried it inside an unused train car. At an old Buddhist monastery that had been turned into a depot on the Chinese-Manchurian Railway, near Ulan Bator. It was like a bank vault,” Tornovsky said. He smiled grimly. “The Bloody Baron was mad, but he was no fool. There was enough gold in that car to fund another world war. The Bolsheviks tried to sniff it out, and the Chinese and the Japanese, and even our own allies—especially that dog Semenov. Everyone wanted it, and the Baron knew that if they realized that we had it, our already precarious position would become untenable. We did not have enough men to repel the invasion that would have resulted. So, we would hide the gold and then spend it slowly—we would make Mongolia into a state to rival that which he had lost, and then…”
“But Ungern-Sternberg got impatient,” Anthony said.
Tornovsky tapped the side of his head. “His madness consumed him. He forgot about the gold, about our plans and then… died.”
Tornovsky was being circumspect, Anthony knew. Ungern-Sternberg had been turned over to the Bolsheviks by his own men after one too many purges, and subsequently executed like a rabid dog. Anthony wondered if Tornovsky had had a hand in that. Perhaps he’d decided to claim the gold for himself, and turned his commanding officer over to the enemy. Money of the sort he was talking about could make a murderer out of a saint. “And you never went back for the gold?”
“I was lucky to get out of Mongolia in one piece,” Tornovsky said. He gave a bitter chuckle. “The Reds hunted us, even as the Tsar’s secret police hunted them. I have spent the better part of twenty years running from one country to another. At first, I thought this ‘Koschei’ was one of them. But I know now that he is something much worse—he is a devil come from hell to punish me for my crimes. Compared to his lunacy, the madness of the Bolsheviks is a gentle one.” He set his mug aside and ran his hands across his shorn scalp. “He is a demon, and he will not rest until we are all in hell, and he is on its throne.”
“Very poetic,” Anthony said. He stood and took Tornovsky’s empty mug back to the kitchen. “Thrones are built on gold, however.” He glanced at his guest. “It’s not only about vengeance, is it?” He set the mugs down. Tornovsky had tensed. “He wants the gold you took from him, along with his pound of flesh, doesn’t he?”
Tornovsky said nothing. Anthony hadn’t expected him to. He went on. “It wasn’t safety in numbers that drew you back here. I’d wager that a man like you doesn’t feel safe in a group. Sirko and Kuzmin wouldn’t have known where the gold was. But they might have known where you were. Sirko almost certainly d
id, if you called him. Did you ask to meet him, I wonder?”
Anthony heard the soft buzz of the entry bell. Gentry had arrived and was coming to join them. He turned away from Tornovsky and began to refill the mugs, adding a third for Gentry. Tornovsky remained silent. Anthony could practically hear the wheels turning in the old Cossack’s head.
“You were going to kill Kuzmin, I think, and Sirko as well,” Anthony said. “But Koschei beat you to them. He cut off your escape route, and caught you, likely because Sirko shared the address you gave him. He smoked you out of your den…”
He heard the tell tale squeak of Gentry’s shoe. Then, a sudden flurry of movement. He spun, and saw Tornovsky crouched over Gentry’s limp body. The old man had Gentry’s weapon out and aimed at Anthony before he could so much as twitch. The old man was faster than he appeared. “An old wolf that is what you called me, yes? Ha! And that is what I am, yes.” Tornovsky grinned as he stood and stepped toward Anthony. “An old wolf who has found himself a new lair!”
8.
Tornovsky grinned nastily and extended the pistol. “At first, I wanted to escape,” he said, “But the more I saw of this place, the more I knew that it would be a good place to wait out the storm. Koschei is a persistent devil, but even he cannot find me here. He will forget about me, in time. He has plans, that one, and is impatient. He wants his gold, but he wants blood more. And Europe will be drowning in that soon enough.”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “I was intending to let you stay, you know.”
“And I thank you for your hospitality,” Tornovsky said. “And the rescue as well; most timely, that.” His smile widened. “But, alas, I have a feeling you would not be inclined to allow me my gold, eh?”
“From the sound of it, it’s not really your gold, is it?”
Tornovsky’s smile vanished, as quickly as if it had been slapped off his face. He thrust the pistol forward. “It is my gold,” he snarled. “I earned it! I was Ungern-Sternberg’s right hand; I killed my weight in men for the cause, and for the Bloody Baron’s spite! And no one is going to take it from me! Not the Communists! Not the ghost of some thin-blooded brat! And certainly not you,” he barked, as his finger tightened on the trigger. Anthony tensed himself to leap. There was little hope that he could avoid a shot at such close range, but he had no option but to chance it.
The sound of a Winchester being cocked was loud in the silence that followed Tornovsky’s outburst. The latter whirled with a curse, the automatic in his hand spitting fire. Mephito, who stood in the doorway of Anthony’s study, hurled himself behind one of the couches in a cloud of Comanche curses. As Tornovsky fired, Anthony barreled forward. The old Cossack snapped back around, but not quickly enough. Anthony caught him up and dashed him to the floor. The automatic skidded from Tornovsky’s hand. He howled and jabbed an elbow in Anthony’s eye.
Unprepared for the old man’s desperate speed, Anthony reeled, clutching at his face. Tornovsky scrambled for the pistol and snatched it up. He whirled, his face split by a triumphant grin. A weapon cracked. Tornovsky’s grin faltered. His eyes rolled up, as if to examine the neat red hole that had suddenly appeared between them. He toppled backwards with a disgruntled sigh.
“You shouldn’t let white men get the drop on you with pistols,” Mephito said. He rose from behind the couch, cradling the still smoking Winchester in the crook of his arm. “Your mother taught you better than that.”
Gentry groaned. Anthony crossed to him and helped him sit up. “That old so and so has a punch like a bear,” Gentry said, rubbing his jaw.
“Had,” Anthony said. He helped Gentry to his feet. “I’m starting to think this isn’t going to end well.”
“Does it ever, Grandson?” Mephito stood over Tornovsky’s body. He looked at Anthony and Gentry, and in the firelight, his wizened face resembled a skull. “Death walks in your shadow, boy. It stretches out before you, touching all whom you meet.”
“Technically it was you who shot him,” Anthony said, but it sounded weak to his ears. The old man was right. Anthony had more dead bodies on his conscience than most men, even those who pursued criminals. He pushed the thought aside. Recriminations could wait until after he’d finished his current investigation.
Gentry broke the moment of silence. “What’s next Jimmy? I mean, with Tornovsky dead, we’re all out of leads.”
“Not entirely,” Anthony said. “We still have a few cards to play. There’s a hand behind all of this, and I intend to break it off at the wrist.”
“Now you speak like a Comanche,” Mephito said. He tossed his rifle to Gentry and grabbed Tornovsky’s ankles. “I will put him in the ice box, until you decide to deal with the body, Grandson.” Even as he began to drag the dead man across the floor, he paused, as if he’d recalled something. He looked at Anthony. “I came to tell you that your servant called. He is waiting to speak to you, on the phone in your study.”
“What were you doing in my study?” Anthony asked. He didn’t bother to ask how the old man had gotten in there without anyone seeing him. Mephito could hide in a seemingly empty room and closely follow a deer for miles without startling it.
“The spirits told me to be there,” Mephito said, as he set to hauling the corpse away once more. Anthony watched him go, his eyes flickering to the blood trail that marked the floor. He grimaced and headed for his study.
“Dawkins,” he said, as he picked up the phone.
“Sir,” Dawkins said, and something in his voice made Anthony tense.
“What is it, Dawkins?”
“There is a fellow named Koschei downstairs, sir,” Dawkins said hurriedly, “And I believe he has Ms. Colquitt…” Anthony’s heart stuttered to a stop as Dawkins’ words echoed in his ear. Dawkins said, “Sir?” The word pierced the fog of horror that had enveloped Anthony, and he snapped to attention.
“Situation,” he growled.
“A baker’s dozen, according to the lobby staff,” Dawkins said crisply. “They’ve sealed themselves in the panic room you installed in the front office, as per your standing instructions. They contacted the police, and then rang the security manager on every floor, before calling me. The intruders have been sealed in the lobby, and the police have cordoned off the street.”
“Dolores,” Anthony said, tersely.
“She and Mrs. Sirko were preparing to leave when the intruders entered the lobby. They immediately corralled all those they could reach in those initial moments of confusion, including Ms. Colquitt and Mrs. Sirko, I am sad to say. The intruders are demanding to see you, sir. Or so the police assure me.”
There could only be one reason that they wanted him. He’d been recognized last night, and rather than hunting him down, his opponents were attempting to force him to come to them. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face tiredly. There were times where his relative celebrity was more a hindrance than he liked to admit. Most of the time it shielded him, and caused his enemies to hesitate; but in this case, it had merely hastened their efforts.
“Are you still in contact with the police?” Anthony asked.
“Yes sir. Inspector Healy is on the scene, and Commissioner Warner as well.”
“Good,” Anthony said. He knew both men, and respected them. “Tell them I’ll be there directly.” He hung up without waiting for Dawkins to reply, and stormed out of the office. “Tom! Get the plane out of mothballs. We’re going back to New York!”
“We just got here,” Gentry protested. He sat on a stool near the firepit, an icepack pressed to his jaw.
“And now we’re going back,” Anthony said. “Our playmates from last night want a rematch, and they have Dolores.”
Gentry tossed the icepack aside. “Why the hell didn’t you say so?” He leapt to his feet and dashed for the exit. Anthony followed more slowly, pausing as Mephito stepped into the room.
“You heard?” Anthony said.
Mephito grunted. “I will send the spirits to keep her safe until you arrive, Grandson.” He hesitated, a
nd then patted Anthony’s arm. “Fly swiftly, boy,” he said.
Anthony nodded, and clasped his grandfather’s hand. Then, moving with long, smooth strides, he hurried after Gentry.
9.
The trip back to New York was interminable, from Anthony’s perspective. He paced in the belly of the plane, his hands working uselessly, his muscles tensing and relaxing automatically. He needed to fight, to punch, to kick, to stab and cut, but there was no enemy within reach and there wouldn’t be, even when he got to where he was going. He settled for sitting on the floor and assuming a lotus position. Eyes closed, he tried to collect and refocus the nervous energy that was driving him to distraction.
By the time they reached the airfield, and had retrieved a car to take them into the city, he had achieved something close to equilibrium. His mind, momentarily free of nagging worry, began to chew over the problem at hand. How would Koschei react, upon learning that Tornovsky was dead? Would he be elated, or angry?
As Gentry drove him to the Waldorf-Anthony, Anthony sat in the back of the car, replaying the scene from the previous night in his head, and slotting in everything he had learned to lend context to the scene. Koschei was vicious, that much he could tell. There was a brutal simplicity to his schemes to date. A simple progression, from one death to the next, dogging a trail over miles and years. It spoke to patience and obsession, two qualities that were dangerous when combined. But there was also a raw sort of madness there. To storm one of the most well known buildings in the world so openly, with no obvious escape route, was the action of a very determined lunatic.
Traffic grew worse the closer they got to the building, and Anthony’s hard-won calm began to disintegrate. Gentry cursed steadily, and punctuated each Gaelic oath with a smack of his palm against the steering wheel. Anthony’s impatience finally boiled over and, without a word, he opened the door and climbed onto the top of the car. Without missing a beat, he was soon vaulting from automobile to automobile, using the roofs, canvas, open or otherwise, as a makeshift boardwalk to carry him to his destination. He left a flurry of cursing motorists and yelps of surprise in his wake, but he ignored them all. Anthony’s only thoughts were for Dolores.
The New Adventures of Jim Anthony, Super-Detective Page 6
